


Hold Still

by tribunal



Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, Knifeplay, Other, Reader-Insert, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: A frenzied Legion--you can’t recognize the skin, know it’s Frank’s voice no matter who’s controlling the head--circles around the boat, knife brandished high and breath coming quickly, pants suffocated against that painted grin of their mask.They know where you are.
Relationships: F.J.S.J. | The Legion/Reader, F.J.S.J. | The Legion/You
Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960252
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Hold Still

**Author's Note:**

> It's late, but it's honest work.

Swamp’s your favorite map. The gentle susurration of leaves brushing up against ankles always brings you to a mind of home, of bayous and below sea levels, and the strong scent of Creole seasonings your mother insisted on making herself (“None of that Opelousas _merde, Bondye!_ ”). If you inhale deeply, carefully, your mind wanders to your mother’s kitchen, to the back door open, mosquito screen door firmly latched but the smoky smell of a nearby barbecue hazing up the air. Something is comforting about that wet dirt scent that chases after it, something near-sublime about the near-constant petrichor of your hometown. 

But that’s not here, just one simulacrum out of many, many, many. Only the snap of a twig breaking underfoot nearby snaps your mind back to the present day, back to hooks and hunting and the constant ache in your knees, more of a comfort than any you’ve known as of late.

You often wish for home, hope against hope that an escape from this...purgatory would present itself, but it is here in the swamps that hurts your heart most; you’ve never felt so close and yet so achingly far.

It is still your favorite, one you’d choose nine times out of ten of all the maps the Entity’s unkind hand leads you to, but it is a bittersweet favorite, dull pains in your chest yearning for the “before time”, as you’ve heard it referred to. Before you were yanked off the street without so much of a “how do you do”, before you were snatched from a promising life--a young medical student with so much ahead of her--and into the hollow pit of the Entity’s realm.

Rage burned out quickly, sorrow lapped at its heels, but--all things considered--you’re adapting well. As well as could be reasonably asked, in any case. You’ve gone through and through and over every stage of grief as many times as there are numbers, but always fall flat at acceptance. This is the hand you’ve been dealt, and you’re no coward to fold when the game goes poorly.

Ace would probably like that. You’ll have to let the aging gambler know next time you see him, huddled against the fire.

Behind you, another twig snaps, and your ears perk: alert. No terror radius, that constant rabbit-beating in your ears hasn’t kicked up to a fever pitch, so it’s either a killer with no radius, one blessed by the Entity with rare perks or tchotchkes added to their weapons, or a clumsy survivor bumbling close to you.

A half-glance behind you reveals the sheet-white visage of Dwight, clutching at a wound deep in his gut and motioning towards it: half-hearted, aborted movements. Bless him, but he’s not terribly good at much of anything, but there’s much to be said for the man that tries nevertheless. Bleak though your situations may be, you cannot help but quirk your lips at the sight of him, motioning him closer and laying hands. This comes easily, the healing, goes quicker than you ever anticipate--quicker than even Claudette, though you swap your own “perks” with her regularly, teach each other secrets in the alcove behind the fire--and Dwight sighs, color already returning to his features, little though it may be.

“It’s the Legion,” He bites out, quickly, between half-parted lips, “They already got Meg. P-Please be careful.”

That explains the ear-piercing shriek you heard earlier, the scream cutting through the air as though it were the Legion’s knife, the sound of a failure you’ll bear on your shoulders--weight you weren’t anywhere close enough to alleviate. She isn’t the sort to hold a grudge, you’re thankful to know, but it doesn’t stop the leaden weight from pitting you, never has and never will.

(“Maybe it’s a secret perk, that guilt you feel? You’ve been here for a while and it hasn’t lessened any?” Yue’s voice in your ear, the memory of her hands leaning over her knees, bandages wrapped firmly around toned arms. You weren’t sure, hadn’t felt any different, but you don’t know the Entity’s mind from a hole in the ground, not sure you’d want to parse something so unknowable, so blatantly _vile._ In response, you had shrugged, watched her dexterous fingers loop bandages around them, and staunchly ignored the heat rising to your face.)

“I’ll do my best.” Grim determination sets your mouth in a thinned line, brow lowered and knees aching all the while. “How many generators left? Eyes on exits?”

Dwight shakes his head, fingers trembling from unspent adrenaline. “I...Last I checked, there were three done. I managed to finish Meg’s before she...she…” One of the first survivors in this place, there’s still something soft in Dwight, still something half-hardened and unfinished, set aside as though it were wet clay. There are times you are thankful for this, times where his sweetness peeking through is more of a godsend than he knows, but other times where his bumbling, his stuttery exhalations are more liability than charm. You hold out a hand to stop his words.

“S’alright. We’ll get it done. Where’s Jake?” It’s an easy question, one Dwight opens his mouth to answer, lips shuddering around the words as that sixth sense the Entity deemed to bestow their “survivors” with ratchets up, anxiety crawling down your spine and making a home there. A frenzied Legion--you can’t recognize the skin, know it’s Frank’s voice no matter who’s controlling the head--circles around the boat, knife brandished high and breath coming quickly, pants suffocated against that painted grin of their mask.

They know where you are.

A quick flick of your eyes back to Dwight already shows him back on his feet proper, lunging and sprinting away, not even a glance behind him. In your earlier days, you would’ve cursed him, called him a coward up and down back at the campfire, let that anger burn through you until the next trial, and refused to save him on his next hook. But that vengeful little streak is nigh useless, you didn’t know how each killer hunted, and now things are much clearer. More vibrant, in stark, alarming clarity. No more blaming here, best to split up now, might as well have one of you get far enough away that Legion’s power dwindles to nothing.

The mask is unsettling, visage settles firmly on you, even as you rock back to your feet, rock into a sprint as quickly as Meg taught you. A raspy, rattling laugh pulls from Legion’s throat, aborted swipe at your heels inspires you to kick them up higher. It’s the chase that lights something fierce up in all of you, you’d wager. This constant survival, the knowledge that you’ll wake up in a modest cabin (no matter how grisly the deaths, Hag’s a mean son of a bitch) until you’re summoned once more to the campfire, probably awakened some unkind kinks in some of you. Nothing you’ll admit to without a gun to your head.

But this. This gets you going. And it is with a speck of spittle drooling down to your chin that you leap into action, circling that blood-hungry killer back towards the boat, diving into a window, and looping them around towards a pallet. Not dropping it, mind, not while they’re frenzied, there’d be no point unless you know for a fact you can knock them stunned, bring forth that irritated grunt from hidden lips, a noise that never fails to make you grin, a vicious, victorious little thing.

So maybe you still have that vengeful streak. But it’s redirected, more towards the killers than the survivors (more often than not, nobody’s perfect, especially not here), and never at the detriment of anyone but yourself. You’ve learned. Promise.

Perhaps it’s your utter lack of ability to convince even yourself that has you stumble, mind lapsing as you forget which movement of the loop you’re on, forget to play along with the mind tricks you’ve grown so accustomed to. Legion wouldn’t chase circles around you, not following so eagerly, would double back and-

Fuck.

Your sneakers skid on the mud, not enough to catch you before you bump into the window before you, the waggling knife waving in some morbid “how do ya do” before they’re lunging, pulling your body through the window, slamming you against the ground. Air leaves you in a huff, adrenaline turning into sick arousal, slickening your thighs with abrupt heat.

Fuck. It’s always dangerous going against the Legion, knowing your own...proclivities. During trials, typical business as usual, but after’s anyone’s game. It’s...a detail you’re careful to not share with the other survivors. You don’t need yet another thing on your conscious.

“Hold still.” This close, you hear it, not only Frank’s voice leading the charge, but the cadence of Julie’s, the pitch of Joey’s. But the body against you has the bulk of Frank, lean sinew honed for violence. The knife against your throat is a harsh reminder, but still your body bucks up, wrists grinding against the unkind hold. Normally, enough to flare heat in your gut, but this isn’t the time. Isn’t the place. Dwight’s blood is smeared on their fingers and that rock of guilt is enough to stop the desire lancing white-hot within you.

“N-Not here. At least wait until after.” The pinch of that knife stills your movements, your own blood trailing fire down sweat-slicked skin. You can feel their inhalation more than see it, knobby fingers stroking against where your hands are captured in their unkind grip. “After the trial. C-Come on.”

Their chuckle comes from above you, lilting, no weight or violence underneath it. Oh, so it’s to be a game, then? You buck up into that grip, careful to not impale yourself on the blade, hips bumping up against their own, teasingly, mockingly. Traitorous body, and you know they know it, know being prey gets you just as warm as them playing hunter. Still, your mouth moves to form words, of denial, of promises for _more, later_ , but they’re half-hearted at best, no real desire behind them aside from the throbbing of need matching your heartbeat.

The edge of the blade traces your collarbone, dips across valleys, and slides--carefully, near-gently--down your cleavage, a stream of blood bubbling up in its wake. Your gasp this time isn’t pretended, shooting them a dirty glare, huffing aloud at the chuckle that you think is primarily Susie, probably Julie. Definitely Frank.

“Not what you’re into, sweetness? Don’t worry, I hear you.” A harsh voice, scratchy and hoarse, from behind the aged mask. And things progress swiftly from there, the rip of buttons and cotton your only warning before your top falls askew, laid bare before a gaze you cannot even see. Sightless, even in your intimate moments, you’re equal parts relieved and disappointed that the mask never comes off. (You’re not sure you want to see what visage the Entity thought fit to give them.) Blade traverses down quivering stomach muscles, flicks past your pants, rips through your panties. Your scream halts midway out your throat, the fingers against your wrists stroking your pulse point with a tenderness completely at odds with their movements.

“Hear you loud and clear.” The deft _schlick_ isn’t warning enough before they flip the blade, the knife pointed inwards, hilt pushed up against your clit, a reckless rubbing that sets your senses aflame. Your breath hitches, gaspy exhalations, hips writhing against the bold jerking of the hilt. A moan builds from deep within your chest, something primal and depraved, and you won’t even pretend to deny you’re enjoying this, enjoying _them_.

The hand shifts from your wrist, tapping twice in some manner of telling you to _behave_ , and the leather of worn glove curls around your neck instead, thumb pressing against that throbbing vein, a tender cant to that abject display of ownership. Disgust roils, but that’s a discussion for another time, not when you’re halfway to an orgasm and coming fast, fast. 

The edge of the blade slides against your cunt, weeping openly despite the danger so near. A flip of the knife again and that hilt is pressing in, in, in, swirling around to collect moisture before hunting deeper, pushing until all that’s left is the blade.

“Not this time.” They say in response to the unspoken fear building up in your eyes, a fear that makes more desire gush around that hilt. Gods. “Maybe later, though. Know you’d like that.”

You’re not going to say anything to that, even if the way you clench over what’s inside you leaves little to doubt.

Something taps against their mask, maybe the flick of a tongue, you aren’t entirely certain. “Cum for us. Maybe we’ll even let you get hatch.” You can hear the smile, the smug intent in their voice, know it’s a dubious offer at best.

And, all the same, you spread your legs.


End file.
